


Muriel Fucking Dies

by 0jala



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Don't Read This, Gen, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0jala/pseuds/0jala
Summary: Muriel acts on destructive urges to try and cope with his feelings of self-loathing.NOTE: You probably shouldn't read this.





	Muriel Fucking Dies

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, you shouldn't read this. 
> 
> I was feeling especially awful during a moment of mental breakdown, and instead of doing something destructive, I wrote Muriel doing something destructive. This is the way that I used to self-harm; actually, this piece of writing is just about me, I just said "Muriel" instead of my own name.
> 
> I've been clean for almost three years now, but I still get urges. I don't act on them, but it felt cathartic to write this. I don't even know why I'm posting it. It feels like I'm sharing myself, I guess.
> 
> Please, if you're at a place in your life where you're dealing with this, get help. I spent months doing intensive outpatient and it helped me a lot. And if you want somebody to talk to, someone who has been through this and come out on top, I'm always available.

muriel fucking dies  
i feel like shit tonight

_They don't love you; how could they? Why did you even let yourself hope? You're unlovable; you KNOW you're unlovable._

Through the thoughts shrieking at him in his mind, through the tingling of his fingers as he grabs the blade, Muriel feels nothing. The sight of his bare thighs is repulsive—though, he's sure, nowhere near as repulsive as the rest of him must be. They are already covered in scars: thick and deep, hideous and jagged, swollen and ugly. A few are from his days at the Coliseum. Many more he had put there himself. He could hardly remember which were which, and he didn't especially care. It didn't matter, anyway.

_You're disgusting. You're repulsive. How could you think, even for a moment, that anybody might find you desirable?_

The blade doesn't glide like he'd hoped it would; instead, it slips and bumps as Muriel drags it through the meat of his thigh. It stings, and for a moment, Muriel feels a bit less numb. It's not enough, though.

Another line, parallel. He's careful this time; Muriel isn't satisfied with sloppy work. The lines need to be straight and evenly spaced.

_"Lines." You're cutting yourself, idiot. This isn't art, or science, or anything like that. You're not capable of such things, anyway. You're drawing blood with a knife; that's all you've ever been good for._

Another, and another, and another. Blood wells up in little droplets along the semi-straight cuts on his thighs—distantly, Muriel curses himself for not cutting deeper. Now that he's run out of room on one thigh, he has to do the other; the thought of them being asymmetrical makes Muriel's stomach churn.

When it's done, Muriel feels faintly relieved, and immensely guilty. They aren't symmetrical like he intended; they never are, as if they're mocking him as he glares down at his bloodied lap. It doesn't matter, anyhow. The next part has always been Muriel's favorite: cleaning up.

The astringent mixture of muddled leaves and water /bites/, and Muriel hisses as he rubs it into his cuts. As expected, they continue to bleed, and Muriel has to apply the salve three or four times before they finally stop. He pulls his pants back on; there will probably be blood on the inside of the fabric, but Muriel can't bring himself to care. He takes himself to bed and hides underneath heavy pelts, and eventually, he cries himself to sleep.


End file.
